


Cerberus

by jive



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare of Sorts, Anal Sex, Blind Character, Body Horror, Bondage, Breathplay, Comeplay, Creampie, Deepthroating, Inflation, M/M, Monster Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual, Other, Sounding, Suspension, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 13:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8104111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jive/pseuds/jive
Summary: Soldier: 76 awakens to find himself strung up and bound in an unfamiliar place, and at the mercy of a monster that knows his name.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever tentacle/monster fic; originally done for a [prompt over at overwatch-kink](https://overwatch-kink.dreamwidth.org/679.html?thread=724903#cmt724903). Please note the tag warnings.
> 
> Endless love to my wonderful beta, [Lakidaa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakidaa), whom I would have never been able to write this without. <3

The first thing that hits him when he awakens is the unexpected chill. The warm muggy heat of the Dorado night air is gone, along with the comfortably gentle breezes that often rustle his thin hair. He is surrounded by a damp coldness, air stagnant and stale. From the sounds of what he would assume are droplets of condensation splashing against the floor in an unsteady rhythm, Jack can only conclude that he's been taken underground. He knows his eyes are open, yet all he sees is darkness.

It's a sight -- well, lack thereof to be more precise -- with which he's more than well acquainted. It seems that whomever has taken him also took the liberty of removing his visor while he was unconscious. Beyond the blurriest of shapes and faint, milky splotches of color, Jack can’t see a thing. And in this dank room? cave? tunnel? wherever the hell he is, he’s fairly sure there’s not much for him to see to begin with.

The next thing he notices is the feeling of the cool, wet stone beneath his bare feet. His captor took his shoes and socks as well, evidently, though they left the rest of his clothing strangely intact. He no longer feels the weight of his biotic canisters on his arm, his belt and thigh holster, and even the harness that braced his back and shoulders is gone. It is understandable, of course, as no captor in their right mind would allow their prisoner to still have access to weapons nor other tools that would assist in their escape. Not that it matters, of course, not with Jack's arms being bound by what he assumes is thick rope tied to the ceiling, judging from what he feels around his wrists and how his arms are suspended in the air.

His hands -- his gloves are gone too, he notices -- attempt to grip whatever ropes are binding his wrists, but for some reason he can't seem to grab hold of anything. Is it just his imagination? Jack could swear he feels his fingertips make contact with something for a brief moment before it dissipates into thin air. The tension on his wrists remain as strong as ever, and an ache begins to form in his shoulders.

He groans in discomfort. Even with his feet flat on the ground, his captor has tied his body in such a harsh Y shape that even the slightest change in weight puts an uncomfortable pressure in his arms.

Faintly, he hears some sort of movement nearby. No more than a gentle shuffle, like fabric rubbing against something in a bare whisper of sound. Jack listens intently for more movement. It’s hard to tell where it’s coming from and how far away it is, but any kind of noise beyond Jack’s own breathing is at least some kind of promising.

“Hello?” he calls out. Jack winces at the sound of his own voice, having fallen into such disuse as of late that it comes out as more of a raspy growl than anything else. Nothing answers him but a small breeze coming from somewhere in the room, caressing his face like a hushed murmur. Given the air was stagnant a second ago, Jack assumes a door had been opened somewhere, or there was at least some sort of fissure in the walls nearby. He could only hope the gap letting the breeze roll in was large enough to allow him to escape once he gets himself free. He tugs at the ropes around his wrists again. The bindings remain as adamant as before, with no indication giving or breaking any time soon.

Jack groans in frustration. He can't recall a time he's felt so helpless, strung up like an offering with no foreseeable chance of escaping, not since--

He shakes the thought from his head. The distant memories of red ropes and dark calloused hands restraining him have no place here, especially not now. Not when he’s in what could very well end up being a life-or-death situation. His brow furrows as he begins to think and plan.

It nearly escapes his notice at first, but steadily he feels the air around him shift, thickening as if a fog is settling into the room. When a hot breath of air puffs against his ear, Jack nearly jumps out of his skin. He is no longer alone, he realizes. His heightened senses detect no actual presence in his immediate area, no any physical body from which the breath could have come from. So, when the hot air caresses his other ear, Jack is once again startled. He turns his head towards what he believes to be the source, searching blindly for some sort of indication that someone else is indeed in the room with him.

“Wh-who's there?!” he asks, attempting to keep his voice steady despite panic beginning to take residence within his chest.

“Good to see you’re alive and well, Jack,” he is answered with a hollow laugh; a rumbling voice with such an unnatural edge to it that alarm bells ring in Jack’s head. Whoever this man is, Jack can almost feel the bloodthirst flooding the room, his voice sharp and deadly like razor wire.

“Who are you?” Jack growls, eyes narrowing. Whoever this person is, no good could come from someone who knows his identity - especially someone with a voice he does not recognize. Could this person be from Talon? The furrows on his brow deepen, and Jack frowns as he waits for an answer, mind reeling from all the possibilities.

“See for yourself,” the voice replies. A sharp metal claw scratches against his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood before it takes hold of his chin and forces him to look straight ahead. He can make out a vague splotch of white ivory surrounded by a pitch-black shadow far darker than the blackness of the room. There is a shuffling noise and the white blur dissipates. In its place, Jack can vaguely make out a face, but what stands out the most are the glowing, blood-red eyes -- or rather, what Jack assumes to be eyes given their shape and position -- that stare back at him.

There’s a long moment of little more than staring before the shadowy figure breaks the silence.

“What, nothing to say for yourself, Jack?” it hisses, voice dripping with venom.

Jack frowns, turning his eyes away despite the fact it makes no difference where they look; they could be closed and he would still see just as much -- nothing.

“Well?!” The claws dig into his jaw, breaking skin and drawing more blood.

“Who are you?” Jack asks again, “What do you want with me?”

Though it is still no better than a blurry splotch in the dark, Jack can see the shadowy figure visibly bristle the moment those questions leave his lips. The claws dig in even deeper, and pull his face forward, closer to now-narrowed red eyes that seem to almost be _glowing_ with anger. He feels that unnatural gaze stare at him, into him, _through_ him, utterly livid that Jack would even _dare_ to not recognize the face just inches away from his own. Jack struggles against the grip on his chin, trying to pull away despite having nowhere to go.

“Take a closer look, Jack, surely you aren't so heartless and senile that you've forgotten all about me,” the shadow spits angrily, face so close to Jack's that he can feel the hot breaths mingle with his own, and smell the faint, lingering presence of fire, smoke, and ashes. When the action garners the phantom no visible reaction from Jack -- no indication of recognition, disbelief, or even a profound sadness -- it roars. “What are you, _blind_?!”

Something about that voice almost makes Jack forget his current predicament and laugh. He’s tempted to reply with some sort of smart remark about the irony of how the shadow can see while he cannot. But now is not the time. Not the place. And this is most definitely not the person who would be receptive to Jack’s horrible sense of humor and quip right back at him.

A silence washes over the room as Jack does not dignify the question with any sort of response. Several moments pass, luminous, burning red eyes seeking answers from clouded, faded blue ones, before the hand around at his jaw loosens its grip and pushes Jack’s face away. There is no force behind it, almost as if does so in resignation. “I see,” the voice hisses, “I suppose I’ll just have to remind you, then.”

The hairs on Jack’s neck stand on end at the not-so-subtle threat looming behind those words, and he tugs on the ropes holding steadfast to his arms. At first, he believes it to be only the work of his imagination leading him to think the ropes are pulling tighter and tighter with each tug of his arms, but when Jack inevitably finds himself stretched taut and at a much harsher angle than he was before, he ceases his struggle. To his horror, he can feel the ropes at his wrists writhing and tightening, as if they weren’t even ropes at all, but some living creature binding his wrists.

“This will be just like old times,” Jack hears the voice murmur almost fondly as a clawed hand takes hold of a hip. Sharp metal scratches at the thin skin over sharp bone, pale flesh left exposed from Jack’s motorcycle jacket riding up along with the black shirt beneath it. The scratches draw a quiet gasp from Jack, the familiar pressure combined with the knife-like sharpness working together to create a strange-yet-arousing contrast of sensation.

A plume of smoke makes its way into his barely open mouth. It dances around his tongue, caressing his palate in a manner far too intimate to be anything less than a kiss lovers bestow upon each other. Meanwhile, those sharp claws dig into his flesh, and when they pull a pained gasp from his lips, the smoke rushes forth and settles down into his lungs. Jack can feel his breaths become shallower, the smoke inside him pushing air out of his lungs and taking residence in the empty space. 

His body convulses, diaphragm spasming in attempts to cough out the smoke that clings and sticks to his lungs and airways. It's difficult to breathe, the feeling of lungs filled with something so foreign is slightly suffocating, but it is not completely impossible to still draw in air. However, his breaths are still very labored. Jack feels his world begin to blur at the edges. He’s getting dizzy.  He’s disoriented. It feels like cotton is being stuffed into his head, and he barely registers the feeling of lips brushing against his temple. Despite all this, and despite the dull haze of pain and the feeling of his lungs slowly burning from the inside out, the touches to his shoulders and neck -- gentle but insistent -- seem to ground him.

They feel nostalgic.

A smokey tendril tugs at his collar and exposes his neck to even more tender strokes against his sensitive skin. The way the smoke grazes him is not unlike the feeling of lips brushing against his nape, mouthing at his slightly sweat-damp flesh in a way that’s all too intimate and familiar. They focus on his hot spots, and Jack can’t help the groan that escapes him when he feels something akin to sharp teeth scrape against the thin skin of the cords in his neck.

Jack tries to choke out a protest at the too-intimate contact, but the burning in his lungs stifles out any attempt to form words. His body convulses, screaming for air despite the pleasant haze of smoke caressing the inside his mouth and throat; and just before the world blacks out completely and his consciousness fades, the suffocating pressure in his airways clear. He gasps violently, wheezing and panting as oxygen floods his lungs, and he coughs, wet and painful as his body shudders at the sudden ability to breathe once more.

The pressure of smoke lingers inside of him, and though not as oppressive as it was before, Jack can tell his lung capacity is still nowhere close to full. He continues to wheeze, lungs pulling in as much air as they can, steadily acclimating themselves to the presence still inside.  He realizes -- far too late -- that the smoke, the tendrils, the claws, and the man- no, _wraith_ before him, are all one and the same. Too monstrous to be a man, but too human to be a monster… so what is it, then?

The sensations of those barely-there touches grow more and more prominent, and before long, they congeal into something more solid than gas, but more liquid than solid. The thick substance creeps its way across Jack's body, a gooey appendage slipping its way down Jack's front, bringing the zipper-pull of his motorcycle jacket down along with it as it slinks down Jack’s torso until the last few teeth of the zipper separate. The thick leather flaps are pushed to the side and part like curtains, exposing more of Jack’s stomach.

The appendage does not cease its journey, however, and Jack sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, groaning a weak and raspy, “Cut that out…” as it traverses the flat plane of skin framed between a shirt hem and a dark waistband. The hand at Jack’s hip shifts slightly, letting a clawed finger hook into the elastic of Jack’s underwear peeking out from beneath his pants. It provides just enough space for the gooey substance to disappear beneath the supple fabric as it ends its journey down the thin trail of hairs leading down from his stomach.

The portion of the _thing_ that did not bleed down his front to nest underneath soft cotton clings to the front of Jack’s pants and, just as it did with the motorcycle jacket, the slime takes hold of the zipper pull and tugs downward. A gasp slips out from Jack's lips as his pants are somehow unbuttoned just as the slider reaches the zipper’s end. Beneath the layers of fabric, the goo curls and wraps around a soft cock, and Jack squawks in surprise when he feels his foreskin being pulled back by a gradually tightening grip.

“Do-don't touch me!” Jack shouts. He thrashes, kicking his legs in protest at the treatment. It's bad enough that this monster, wraith, _whatever the hell_ it is, is taking him prisoner and making him suffocate, but like hell if Jack Morrison is going to suffer sexual assault at the hands,   _tentacles_? of some unknown boogieman. Surprisingly, the ministrations stop. He sighs in relief when the touch around his cock disappears completely, though the reprieve from the monster’s torment does not last for long.

Pressure wraps around his legs, smoke forming around each calf and thigh, coiling around and around until it solidifies into dense ropes, not unlike the bindings around Jack’s wrists. However, these are thicker, heavier, and feel far stronger. Jack yelps in surprise as he is hoisted off of his feet and into the air. The ropes coil tighter and tighter, as they spread his legs but Jack does not feel any increased pressure against flesh. As if by magic, Jack feels the ropes somehow _dissolve_ through his pants; the sturdy cords sitting atop thick fabric one second, and in the next, sitting beneath and making direct contact with his skin.

From out of nowhere another thick appendage appears. It rests at the small of  Jack’s back, rubbing in a soothing manner that does nothing to calm him. In fact, a horrified chill runs up Jack’s spine at the realization of what that intimate caress at the dimples of his lower back precludes. He thrashes once more.

“I said stop!” Jack yells, struggling against the bindings around his legs and arms. It comes out more indignant and desperate than angry, voice straining as the tendril dips into to back of his pants. He yelps as the tendril swiftly takes his pants off in one swift tug, leaving his lower body completely exposed save for the thin pair of briefs covering what little remains of his modesty.

“Still as handsome as ever,” the figure hums thoughtfully. The hand at Jack’s jaw drifts downward and slides beneath the hem of Jack’s shirt, pushing it upwards until the black fabric is bunched up just over his chest and beneath his collarbones. Jack whimpers when he feels the slimy substance from before crawl its way back up his body and settle over his nipples, squirming against the sensitive buds and slowly drawing them to erection. The claw at his hip moves to trace a particularly sensitive scar -- if Jack recalls correctly, one from one of his first missions, where he shielded Rey- _his then-partner_ from a well-aimed gunshot and took a bullet to the gut for his troubles -- dancing across the puckered flesh for several moments before it moves to the other numerous scars decorating Jack’s torso. The movements are ticklish, and Jack squirms beneath the contact.

Without warning, both claws move to junctions of where Jack’s legs meet his hips, sliding beneath his thin underwear and taking care not to scratch the delicate skin there. Jack groans at the familiar feeling of large hands caressing his pelvis in such a way, and visibly jerks beneath the touch, body unsure as to whether or not to press upwards into the hard leather and cold metal, or to flinch away. He is left with no choice, as those claws suddenly shred through his underwear, letting the scraps of fabric fall off his body like ribbons.

Jack shivers, whimpering as -- despite the jacket and shirt still on his upper body -- his form is completely exposed. He attempts to curl inwards to shield himself but to no avail. The ropes at his arms and legs hold him steady.

The tendril that teased his cock returns once more to coil around it. Not a second passes before it begins stroking the half-hard length in a slow and steady rhythm, insistent in its actions. Jack feels it wrap and writhe around his shaft, pulling and shifting his foreskin as the length -- to Jack's mortification -- fully hardens and flushes with arousal. The monster pays his objections no attention, and continues to dance around his erection, circling Jack's sensitive flesh and drawing out as many reactions as it can.

“Why are you doing this?” he groans, determined not to let the shadow see him succumb to the provocative touches at his cock. His attempts to preserve his modesty are futile, at best, as the shadow can no doubt feel for itself the precum beginning to bead at the tip of his cock, the sweat forming at his temples, and the hot flush of blood rushing to his face.

“To remind you,” the voice answers, its tone dripping with what Jack senses as some sort of resentment.

Without warning, his legs are spread wide and Jack cries out as a tendril -- no doubt the one that had stripped him of his pants -- slides beneath him, slowly pressing into the cleft of his ass and making its way towards the entrance hidden between two pale cheeks. He attempts to thrash once more, fighting hopelessly against the bonds holding him in place. Jack freezes when the tendril makes contact with his hole, pressing insistently against the ring of muscle, but not enough to breach it, as if testing for something.

A moan manages to slip from between Jack’s lips as he feels his hole twitch at the persistent pressure being forced against it. He hates how the prospect of being fucked when he is being so stimulated against his will only arouses him further. Jack nearly cries when the tendril begins to ooze something warm and slick against his hole, and feels his body welcome the penetration. The thin appendage worms its way inside of him, opening up his tight hole and spreading warm slick as it makes its way deeper, and Jack can feel his skin buzz with excitement.

“S-Stop.... Please,” he tries to plead, jerking against the unforgiving hold on his extremities. He hates how pleasant it feels to be touched on the inside, how loudly it makes him moan and pant when the tendril brushes against a particular spot on his inner walls, and how he can feel himself losing control to the unwanted sensations. He tosses his head back, a strangled moan erupts from his throat as the tendril begins pressing insistently against his prostate. His cock twitches in the monster’s grasp, and he all but sobs, begging for mercy.

The shadow attempts to quiet his cries, shoving more smoke into his open mouth and down his throat. It is not as dense as it was before, allowing Jack to breathe, but it keeps his teeth so separated and windpipe so open that Jack can’t even move his jaw, let alone speak. The smoke undulates within his throat, and he can feel tears begin to form at the corners of his eyes.

“You never know when to give up, do you?” the voice coos almost fondly from beside Jack’s ear. Sharp teeth scrape against the sensitive outer ridge of his ear, and the warm breath puffing against his skin sends a shiver down his spine. Warm leather runs up the inside of his bare thigh, caressing his flesh in an attempt to comfort him, but with how sensitive that erogenous area is, it does little more than cause his heart to jackhammer even faster.  

Jack's quiet, harsh breaths through his nose quickly turn into desperate keening noises as the unnatural, but stimulating presence at his nipples begins to writhe and shift. The the small bundles of nerves are assaulted with sensation as the temperature of the thick, gooey substance warms up and begins pinching and tugging the nubs in irregular rhythms. Jack groans as the insistent touches send jolts of arousal flash up and down his spine. The substance turns slightly slick against his skin, and the extra sensation makes it almost feel as if two mouths are sucking on him, teasing him with wet tongues and blunt teeth. Jack's back arches involuntarily, chest pressing forward as if seeking more of that maddeningly arousing contact on his sensitive chest.

He feels himself getting dizzy as the smoke around him thickens, and the wisps of smoke that had been violating his mouth and throat slowly begin to solidify into a solid mass. It’s dense, hard against his tongue and unyielding even when Jack attempts to tighten his jaw and sink his teeth down in an attempt to drive the invader out from his mouth.

His eyes begin to water, lungs beginning to burn from the lack of oxygen, and he fights the lurching of his stomach, urging his body to gag and expel the dense mass of _something_ currently violating his mouth and throat.  He feels another thin appendage press against his already occupied hole, dancing around his rim and spreading more of that warm, tingly slick to ease the friction. Not soon after, a third twists its way inside of Jack’s hole, braiding itself around its brothers and pressing against Jack’s walls as it pushes deeper and deeper inside him.

_Oh god._

In all his years since Gabriel -- since Zurich -- that he spent drifting aimlessly, occasionally cruising bars whenever the need to get dicked hit him, he’s never felt anyone, any _thing_ reach so deep inside of him. While not as emotionally satisfying as being in the embrace of a lover- _his_ lover- _Gabriel-_ so many years ago, getting fucked hard was at least enough to distract him for a night from the pangs of loneliness that pained him. He’d taken cocks of all shapes and sizes, but none of them had ever reached so far deep inside of him.

He’s never felt so full.

Slowly but surely, the chaotic thrashing of the individual cords within him begin to settle, as if satisfied with the depth in which they’ve entered him. The ridges between them become shallower and shallower until they have all melded into a single entity, one thick phallus burrowed within him. It uncomfortable and humiliating, how thick the lone appendage is, but the sensation of being so full, so filled, does little more than arouse Jack further.

Jack swears he can feel the tentacle writhing in his guts, and can only imagine that if he had his sight and looked down his front, there would be a bulge below his belly button to show just how deep this thing has made its way inside of him. The prospect of something having crawled so far deep into his body, penetrating him even further than he ever thought possible should disgust him. It should worry him, as the _thing_ inside of him could so easily tear him apart from the inside out. And yet, despite this horrible predicament, where Jack should be horrified and wary, he instead finds himself excited.  

He hears the voice echo around him -- behind him, beside him, _inside_ of him -- laughing, hissing, and groaning with excitement. It’s a voice he feels he’s familiar with but can’t recognize at all. He should probably be panicking, but Jack can’t find it in him to struggle. It feels too good, the sensations inescapably pleasant and only just shy of being overwhelming. The tendrils caress him in areas that were previously unexplored to their fullest extent, touching him in all the right places and lighting him up from the inside out like a bonfire.

His toes curl. His fingers scrabble for purchase only to find nothing. He resorts to clenching so tightly that his nails dig into his palms so deep that they draw blood. His body tenses. He is so overloaded with sensation that he attempts to cry out, attempts to make some sort of noise, but all that escapes him is a choked, soundless moan that vibrates through the appendage keeping his mouth occupied as he tosses his head back in pleasure.  

What feels like several minutes pass before the tentacle begins to move inside of his ass. But it does not thrust in and out of him as Jack expected it would. It does not alternate between filling him and leaving him empty inside, begging for more, wrecking him in steady pushes, like he almost wants it to. No. It does not fuck him so much as ebb and flow inside of him, like a tide crashing against the rocks in steady waves. Not unlike the oppressive feeling of the smoke around him, enveloping him in a blanket, seeping in and out of his lungs, and playing gatekeeper to the air that enters and leaves his body.

It's too much and not enough all at once.

It's maddening how wonderful it feels. How helpless he feels being slowly pushed and dragged to the edge.

And the despite how hard Jack tries not to think about it, the fact he finds such intense pleasure in the humiliation and pain is perhaps one of the worst things of all.

But while the thick shaft in his ass moves little beyond expanding and contracting -- rubbing against his walls and changing the pressure against his prostate in a steady rhythm -- the one in his mouth begins to slide in and out. It moves slowly at first, slipping back and forth, massaging Jack’s tongue as it allows more oxygen to enter Jack’s lungs. But before long, the speed of its movements quicken until it’s more or less fucking Jack’s mouth with fervor, occasionally dipping down so far into his throat Jack can swear he feels its tip occupy the entirely of his vocal chords. Jack moans -- to the extent of how much someone could moan with something completely occupying their throat, anyway -- and his eyes flutter closed in pleasure.

“Nice to see this slutty mouth of yours hasn't changed,” Jack hears the smokey monstrosity hiss in his ear, and it sends a shiver of excitement down his spine. “Not having a gag reflex always did make fucking your throat so easy…”

The puff of warmth against his skin is a huge contrast against the cool blanket of smoke surrounding him, and distracts him briefly from the monster’s incessant movements. He swears he recognizes that voice, as distorted as it is, but cannot place where. Without a doubt, this phantom knows him, so why can Jack not recognize them…? He wracks his muddled brain for answers, but the wraith does not let him dwell in his thoughts for long before it moves on to his final act.

Jack’s eyes fly open in surprise and disbelief when the solid coil stroking his cock begins pressing against his slit, wriggling its slender tip insistently against the small opening. He feels the surface of the tendril slicken up and struggles against the ropes, no, the _tentacles_ holding his arms and legs in place to no avail. Any and all of Jack’s protests are fucked right back down into his throat, and with the same swiftness and force, the thin cord pressing against his slit slips inside. It moves in the same rhythm as the appendage fucking his throat, alternating randomly between fast and slow.

The extra sensation of his dick being penetrated so intimately proves to be too much for Jack, and within moments, his eyes roll to the back of his head and his body seizes in ecstasy. The orgasm hits him like a freight train, and he clenches so hard around the thick length inside of him that he swears he can feel each and every single artificially formed bulge pressing against his walls. The tentacle shifts one last time, punching one loud moan from Jack as it collects itself, and surges directly against Jack's prostate. The insistent pressure against his sweet spot is the last straw and Jack cums so hard he sees stars.

Jack doesn't even notice that the thin tendril in his dick is no longer there, only that he can literally feel his cum leaving his overstimulated slit. Each pulse of cum is preceded by a squirming, sloshing sensation within the length of his cock. It's as if the black goo that was once the tendril sounding him mingles together with his own cum as it makes its way out of him. The thick mixture of cloudy white and pitch black splatters from the tip of his cock, staining the ground as Jack steadily goes through his extended orgasm. Through the pleasure-addled fog of his mind, Jack vaguely registers the low, rumbling chuckles against his ear and the cold touch of a metal claw running up his length and catching a wayward spurt of cum. His clouded eyes attempt to trace the hand’s movement, and when Jack realizes the monster is licking his cum off those metal fingertips, he feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Sweet,” he hears the voice comment with an amused lilt as Jack turns his head and looks away.   

The involuntary twitching of Jack's stuffed hole and clenching of his guts continue even after the last drop of the slime and cum mixture leaves his body. He gasps against the tentacle in his throat, tightening around the one in his ass as if begging for it to come as well. Jack groans at the prospect of being filled even further, of the appendage coming and releasing more of that thick substance inside of him until it floods his insides and leaks out when no room remains.

“What a good boy,” he hears the voice groan in his ear as the tentacle swells one last time inside of him. Jack's own moans degenerate into weak whimpers as he feels the tendril that had been keeping his ass so stretched and full begin to melt. 

The pressure slowly eases off of his inner walls, until every last inch of the appendage has liquefied into the same thick, viscous substance that lubricated his entrances. Jack could swear he feels the goo sloshing around with a mind of its own before it vacates his body. The liquid surges back inside of him for a brief second, crashing violently into his over-stimulated prostate until his body tenses up and shudders from the contact, and pulls one last strangled moan from Jack’s raw throat before it ebbs back out.

The last remnants of the monster leak from his sloppy hole, now loose and gaping slightly.  It trickles out from his insides slowly, seeping out in thick rivulets and running down his balls and inner thighs. Despite its thick viscosity, the liquid leaves his body far faster than even the thinnest cum that’s ever had the privilege of being deposited inside of him, Jack notes distantly.

The feeling of cum -- even if it was, in this case, the slime of a monster -- dripping out of his hole is familiar and strangely comforting, and he sighs in both relief and satisfaction when he feels the last bit of slick leaves his his body. He feels content, so fucked out that it's almost a miracle how he's still barely hanging onto the last threads of consciousness.

Jack gasps in surprise as the patches of wetness still on his skin -- at the glans of his cock and clinging to his ass and thighs -- suddenly evaporates all at once. It's a strange sensation to be sure; one second he feels blissfully and utterly fucked-out sloppy-wet, and the next, completely clean and dry. It is as if nothing had ever happened, that being fucked so thoroughly by some phantom was nothing more than some wishful fantasy his twisted mind came up with.

He feels himself being lowered, bindings around his wrist slackening from their ties to the ceiling, and the tentacles curled around his legs and waist easing him down onto his side when his ass makes contact with the ground. Just as quickly as the tentacles had come into being, they dissipate, and reform into the shadowy figure from before. Slowly, Jack regains his senses as he comes down from his orgasm-induced high, and before Jack can even do anything -- escape, scream, lash out -- the figure moves closer to him, placing a clawed hand gently at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. It  drifts down his body slowly, the touch more comfortable and calming than anything else.

He can feel the glowing red eyes on him, examining him from head to toe. Hard leather and metal claws gingerly take hold of a leg, and Jack reflexively kicks back. Given the lack of force behind it, the figure easily takes the blow,  Jack hisses and whimpers weakly at the feel of cold metal and hard leather spreading his cheeks once more. Surely the monster had enough fun?

Relief washes over him when the hand lets go of his ass, but he can't help the uneasy feeling lingering in his chest when he realizes the figure is still crouched beside him. He feels his limbs being moved one by one, each lifted into the air and turned this way and that for a few moments before being gently placed back down. When it comes turn for his right hand, Jack notes that the monster spends just a bit more time inspecting it than he did with the others.

Gingerly, the metal claws trace what Jack can tell are bruises slowly forming at his wrists. A gasp escapes his own mouth when he feels something soft press against the palm of his hand -- lips, perhaps, given the warm breath he feels as well -- and move to the tender flesh of his wrist.

“You still bruise so easily…” he hears the voice murmur quietly. All the anger and rage from before are gone, though Jack can't quite place the emotion that has now taken their place in the figure’s tone. Whatever it is, and despite the fact he is leaving himself so vulnerable while an enemy is right beside him, Jack can't bring himself to care as exhaustion slowly takes hold of his body.

The last things Jack registers before succumbing to unconsciousness are the gentle press of plush and scarred lips against his own, the feel of thick facial hair brushing against his cheek, and the unexpectedly tender caress of thick leather and metal claws against his neck. The touches are so gentle and familiar that when Jack finally closes his eyes and his breaths fall steady, his mind fills in the empty void the beneath the figure’s hood with the face of someone who used to touch him with such intense care and affection so many years ago.

He later berates himself for such wishful thinking.

It’s when he next meets Reaper on the battlefield, and his voice sends a flare of arousal up Jack's spine and deep into his core, that recognition hits Jack like a shotgun blast. His guts churn with a storm of embarrassment, shame, and excitement all at once as he feels like cock twitch and swell reflexively to that low, growling timbre.

“Hello again, Soldier: 76.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you think. Please feel free to leave me a comment or drop me a message on my [tumblr](http://jiveammunition.tumblr.com)!


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